


Cave Canem

by WildandWhirling



Series: Between the Waves [5]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Artois: STILL the worst human being in the world, As much as Artois is capable of, Canonical Character Death, Classism, Forced Shoe Kissing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, M/M, Manipulation, Obsession, Power Imbalance, The Dog Bites Back, Unrequited Love Switcheroo, Villain PoV, abusive dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: He will come back. He always does.In exile, the Comte d'Artois dwells on his relationship with Lazare de Peyrol.
Relationships: Charles X de France/Lazare de Peyrol (one-sided), Ronan Mazurier/Lazare de Peyrol
Series: Between the Waves [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1038053
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Cave Canem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estike/gifts).



> Warning: The following story contains spoilers up to Chapter 10 of Pour la Peine. Or Chapter 10 of Pour la Peine contains spoilers for this, depending on your point of view. Artois is an utterly despicable being, I have tried to reflect that in the tags, but please be warned that, while I try not to dwell on some of his actions, as a matter of personal taste, this is definitely not a light or happy fic in any way. As a result, while I, as the author, obviously want maximum engagement with it, I would highly recommend clicking out if you do not believe you are up for it. I don't believe that it is necessary to fully understanding the events of the series, though it does contextualize them better.

When all was said and done, the Comte de Peyrol was a fool. 

Of course he knew about the peasant boy, he’d known almost from the beginning, when Peyrol had returned from the country with a dazed, distant expression.

A decent soldier, but not particularly good at hiding anything. Not used to it. Especially not from him. 

Oh, it had been amusing, ribbing him for months afterwards about what young country girl had caught his eye, but it had been one more frothy amusement, like one of the glasses of pink champagne Antoinette shoved in his hand at one of her parties, when he didn’t care how much of it went to the floor because it would be refilled in a second anyway. 

“Ah, Monsieur de Peyrol,” he said languidly one day, running his hands along the arm of a chair while Peyrol stood, rigid and at attention, unable to sit unless specifically invited. And Charles would never grant that, would never blur the line between the two of them, which was written in molten gold. (It would be far better, Charles thought, for him to kneel, anyway, for all of them to.) “You seem distant today.”  
  
Peyrol jolted up, the wine in his glass carelessly sloshing from side to side, droplets like red gems splashing against the floor. “Monseigneur?” 

“I would almost think that some young country girl had stolen your heart from us,” Charles smiled, even as he didn’t, but those around him understood well enough, laughing on cue. It was a fact well known and acknowledged if not said (nothing interesting was ever said at court, at least not with words) that it wouldn’t be a country _girl_ that had caught his eye. 

No, Charles had spotted the lingering glances his own way, the way that, when he so much as touched his hand, he would shake even as his face remained calm, the way that he always, always came crawling back, no matter how much Charles chastized him. And, unlike the others who crawled back out of need, always with a request on the tip of their tongue, always fawning and appealing to him even if fury lurked behind them for whatever petty reason, Peyrol never did. Instead, he took his place by his side as if it was perfectly slotted for him, and regardless of what Charles had said to him earlier, he showed no signs of anger. He understood. He understood his place, and he understood that it was Charles’ to take or bestow upon him as he saw fit, his only promise of satisfaction being remaining in his presence, like some crawling thing coming out of its cave to bask in the sun. 

The poor fool was in love with him. Utterly, absolutely, and conveniently. 

Peyrol’s face fell before he bristled, and then there was that moment, that one moment he always had where there was that delightful suspense over whether he would snap like a rabid dog or retreat. (He had never snapped yet, but it was always so much fun to poke at him to see.) 

“I beg your pardon, Monseigneur, but you are mistaken.”  
  
“Oh, really?” 

It was amusing to think of something disquieting _Peyrol_ , to think of him staying up at night writing little love poems to some peasant who probably didn’t even know his name, of pining like a little boy who hadn’t learned to take what was his, all for some gap-toothed nobody. (Rousseau and the like could talk about the appeals of the country life, Antoinette could have her little world away from the world at Petit Trianon, and he would even join her, but the entire business was much improved, he thought, without actually being forced to interact with any scowling, smelling peasants.) 

“Absolutely.” Peyrol stood straight, dipping his head in a gesture that, while not a full bow, carried the full submission of one. “I would hardly let a foolish infatuation distract me from my duty, were I to form one. However, I met no one in the country. My entire purpose was to simply collect taxes and mete out punishment to those who would withhold what rightly belongs to the Crown. Nothing more.”   
  
“No?” Charles raised his chin, looking at Peyrol through eyes that were half-lidded as he fought against the urge to fall asleep (a consequence of a particularly late night at a discrete party that had led to him only rising well after midday). “No,” he murmured, and Peyrol’s eyes fixed on him. He had his complete attention now, and that was that. 

Nothing was going to come of it, anyway. Peyrol was _his_ , had been for years. Not that Charles would ever touch him, because he could hardly stand an easy, compliant target, but if he’d snapped his fingers, Peyrol would come to his bed without a word. Oh, he could turn cold on occasion, though he always thought that he hid it, especially when Charles had a new mistress for one night or another.

He had even amused himself once, when Peyrol had shown too much of a mind of his own, by having him stand outside the door while he enjoyed the company of a certain Mademoiselle Dúthe (he remembered the name only because she had been an amusement of his cousin’s once, an amusement he had taken for his own). When he’d opened the door, shirt barely hanging over his chest, breeches half unbottoned, and gave a thoroughly indulged smile at Peyrol, he had inwardly screamed in laughter, the other man’s stammered responses while he tried to meet Charles’ gaze, written orders crumpled in his hand, adding the perfect degree of levity to the evening. (He and Mademoiselle Dúthe had laughed heartily about it afterwards, though it was really more him laughing and her laughing with him because, even if she didn’t fully have the capacity to understand why it was so funny, she could understand that there was some great joke.) 

However, it would be over soon, and Peyrol would return. Of course he would. 

And he did. After the initial infatuation was over, he returned to Artois’ side, sharp eyed as ever, and Artois had his shadow back. All was as it should have been. 

* * *

He had no reason to care for the name “Mazurier” when the Secret Police gave their report on what had happened in the Palais Royal, nearly a year after. An insect, nothing more. Possibly useful if taken advantage of, however...nothing of interest. 

But then, something happened. Something that Artois had never expected. 

Peyrol _resisted_ him.

“The prisoner in the Tour du Puits,” Artois sat at his mahogany desk, running his hands lightly along the wood, the rings on his fingers glimmering in the light of the dim candles that dotted the area while Peyrol watched the movements with rapt attention. Oh, he barely used it, the stationery gathering dust from where it laid dormant (he wasn’t even sure if he remembered where he kept it), however _that_ hardly mattered. What mattered was the position, the idea that this was where he made his decisions, and that he could enforce them with his seal if necessary. “Ronan Mazurier.”  
  
As soon as he said it, there was a shift in Peyrol’s expression. He stopped looking at Artois’ hands, something resembling nervousness entering his expression. “What of him?” 

Artois made a show of sighing, “He is a great inconvenience to me, I’m sure you understand. With these stories he keeps telling about my family. Obviously, my brother is too soft to do anything himself, and I believe, for the sake of his well being, it would be better to keep it just between a few of us, hm?” 

“Monseigneur?” 

It was an eternal misery to Artois: The sheer lack of decent help. Peyrol was, by far, the best he had, however the man could be utterly hopeless when it came to the subtler side of politics. 

“I want him put out of his misery. As soon as possible.” 

Of all the things that came next, the last thing he anticipated the Comte de Peyrol to begin pacing back and forth in measured strides, his military boots wearing a hole in Artois’ latest Persian rug. (They rarely lasted for long, the last one’s death warrant being signed when a drop of wine landed around the fringe of it. He could never bear to look at them for long once they’d been marred, not when it was much easier to toss them away.)  
  


“What is it? Is there some strange illness that’s keeping you from your duty?” 

“I simply...believe it might be imprudent. I still need to interrogate him further, discover who’s been assisting in his revolutionary activities. This might be our chance to cut off the head of the mob before it has a chance to form.” His words were stammering, even as he said them, and he had the sense of someone tumbling off a mountain side and grasping at anything, whether it was a twig, branch, or sharp rock, to hold off the descent. 

Artois made the effort of raising himself off the chair, walking over to Peyrol purposefully, and the other man bowed his head in his presence. Good. He still knew his place, at least. 

“Lazare, Lazare.” He moved his hand so it was just beneath Peyrol’s chin, forcing him to look at him. “ _Lazare_. You misunderstand me. I don’t care to ask about whether you believe it’s a good idea. I want it done. Now, do you understand me?” 

“Yes, Sir,” he said, and for the slightest of moments, Artois thought he saw the slightest twitch in those cold brown eyes before they deadened again. “May I have my orders?”  
  
“Oh!” Really, the work he put into the man. It made him wonder why he bothered. But, he supposed, it was better for him to be stupidly obedient than not. 

He scrawled the notes on a piece of paper, and presented it to Peyrol with a flourish. In turn, Peyrol made a reverence, and it was exactly as it should have been. 

“Good boy,” Artois smiled at him, the edge of it cutting beneath his cheeks as he ran his thumb along Peyrol’s cheek, letting his fingernail brush along one of the sharp edges of Peyrol’s face. “The Secret Police will be in touch.” 

Peyrol’d done the most dangerous thing he could have done to the peasant’s prospects: Piqued Artois’ interest. 

There was something unusual there, between him and this peasant, and the operas for the last season had all been frothy, painfully predicable comedies anyway. (Oh, but Antoinette made over them _so_ much, clapping and laughing enthusiastically every time the lovers kissed in their matching pastel costumes at the end and performed their little pastoral dances, and he had to smile and clap as well even as he wanted to vomit.) 

It was his own fault. 

The greatest upset (not a surprise, a temporary reordering of his plans, nothing more. Nothing really could _surprise_ him) didn’t come from him, anyway. 

No, it was the Du Puget girl who freed it, impudent as she was. She thought she could keep secrets from him too, but unlike Peyrol, she hid it with that smile that mocked and teased in equal measure. Not that Artois truly thought that she did it on her own, a little governess like her, a mouse who thought that she could throw herself in with wolves. Her father helped her, no doubt. 

And, if Peyrol had neglected to leave the cell door open, he certainly could have been quicker in his response. 

When Peyrol had been called back to explain his failure, he’d almost thought he would tell all then, but he didn’t. Oh, he was not so insolent as the Du Puget girl, who made towers for herself with her tongue. No, he was older, more experienced, not so clever, but perhaps a little wiser. Instead, he held his tongue, bowed his head, and promised that it would be recaptured. Charles had half a mind to reveal him then, see that proud stone face crumble, see him scramble to justify it, however he wanted to see Peyrol pull himself out of it even more. 

“Really, Lazare, I had expected better than this...incompetence.”  
  
Peyrol’s back straightened. “Incompetence?” 

“A single peasant. A single, stupid peasant, and yet you lost him when he was under lock and key. I wonder at times why I even bother to keep you around.” 

“With all due respect, Monseigneur, this did not fall under my duties. It was entirely under the jurisdiction of the Secret Police. Given their own excellent reputation, I believed that there was no reason to have any doubt in their capabilities.” 

Peyrol shot a single, baleful look at the Secret Police, including Ramard, who stood up. “Hey!” 

“Oh,” Artois waved a hand dismissively, “They _are_ idiots, but I had entrusted this to _you_. This was, after all, your idea.” 

He knew it hadn’t been, Peyrol knew it hadn’t been, but it made things so much easier if it had been. It was much easier, when he couldn’t unload any further blame on the Du Puget girl, to have someone else standing in. 

“I-” Peyrol’s jaw worked, back and forth, until he could formulate words, “I apologize, Monseigneur, it will not happen again.” 

“All that effort….all that training, sometimes I wonder what it all went into. When your grandfather was trying to teach you about accountability, duty, _gratitude_ , what were you doing, I wonder? Hanging your coat in the nearest brothel?” 

He knew it would have the effect that he wanted, because Peyrol loved him, stupidly, pointlessly, pathetically, and so Artois had heard things no one else had heard. Things that Peyrol had spilled to him the second that he believed that he had someone who _cared_ , who _understood_. Things that he had likely forgotten he had ever told him, but that Artois kept like a lover might keep a lock of hair. 

His grandfather had ruined him for any personality from a young age, but, of course, his loss had been Artois’ gain. He had come to Artois so desperate for any sort of affirmation that he knew that the easiest way to thoroughly get under his skin was to refuse him that and, what was more, refuse him the training that had destroyed him too. 

And, like any lover accused of an infidelity, Peyrol scrambled, “You know I never-” 

Artois raised a hand to silence him. “I don’t care for your excuses. Just your compliance. I am sickened to be in the same room as you. Go. Leave me until you can present yourself in a manner worthy of being in my presence.” 

Peyrol gave an unsteady bow before turning to leave.  
  
“Wait.” 

“Monseigneur, I thought you said-”  
  
“I told you to say your farewell to me, or are you deaf as well?” 

He stepped forward, and Artois could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Good. He was off-balance. 

Artois reached out a hand, the chalk white of his skin being a firm contrast to Peyrol’s skin which, while not sun baked as that boy’s undoubtedly was, bore the marks of the sun and the wind. 

Peyrol leaned down to kiss it, as one might kiss the hand of a bishop, but then Artois turned his hand upward. 

“Monseigneur-”  
  
“Not the hand.” 

Peyrol followed his gaze to his freshly shined, coal-black heels and the buckle that took over most of the shoe. The Artois Buckle, as it was known everywhere from England to even the backwaters of America. It was large, curving to accomodate the entire instep of his foot, the shoe more serving to hold the buckle than the buckle serving to hold the shoe. Most young men, fops hoping to draw attention to themselves with illusions of grandeur, used paste to stud around theirs, the stones catching the gleam of the chandeliers at balls and salons, but in his own buckle, real diamonds glinted from all around it, sparkling with each step that he took. 

Diamonds fell off routinely, of course they did, but it was no bother to him. They could always be replaced. 

Artois nodded at his shoe, and Peyrol, dear, sweet, obedient Peyrol, finally bent his knee, glossy hair falling around him, and he kissed the shoe. Having learned his lesson that day, he stayed there, bent, until, finally, Artois bid him to rise. 

Peyrol did so, rising off of the ground, and Artois took his face in his hands again. It could almost have been a lover’s caress, or else a prelude to a kiss. “I so hate when I have to be harsh towards you, Lazare. It pains me to see you look this.”  
  
Peyrol did not dare agree, his eyes locked on Artois’, barely hiding their fear. 

Artois stroked his cheek. “Don’t fail me again.” 

It was good to see him broken, of course, but it was equally important to reel him back in. 

Peyrol hesitated. “Monseigneur?”  
  
“What is it now?” Artois drawled. 

“So that I do not forget, could you write it down?”  
  
He could have laughed. Oh, Peyrol was finicky like that, always so focused on precision, always asking for things to be written down, lest he stray one step away from the letter of the law. But, it was what made him a great soldier. 

“You’re so stupid you can’t remember, are you?”  
  
Peyrol’s face was perfectly calm. “I simply worry about fulfilling your desires to the best of my ability.”

“Hm, you’ve caught me in a benevolent mood. Ramard!”  
  
“Yes, sir!” The young man saluted in front of him. 

“Bring some ink and paper. The Comte de Peyrol needs a reminder of what his orders are.” 

Resting his feet on one of the other Secret Agents, he dashed out the orders against the page, a few flourishes of his hand changing the course of lives. 

“Are you happy now?” He handed the paper over to Peyrol. “Do you believe this will be enough, or should I have used smaller words?”  
  
He gave a stiff nod. “This shall suffice, Monseigneur.”

And, he was certain, after that, Peyrol would apply himself even more to the search. His loyal dog had licked his feet, he would come back again once he’d done his duty. Even if Artois could hear him stamping outside once the door had closed behind him. 

"Your Highness?" Ramard walked towards him like a newborn colt. 

"I want to know what he does, where he goes, who he goes with, and what he has for breakfast. Am I understood?"

"I'm sure that he had nothing-" 

At an icy glare from Artois, he stiffened. "Yes, Your Highness." 

As he sipped from the glass of red wine that occupied the table next to him, he thought that it didn’t hurt to have a leash on his dog, just in case. 

* * *

  
  


Peyrol should have ripped Paris apart, churning out its bowels before he’d given up the hunt and returning the creature to Artois’ feet, battered and bruised. 

Instead, he was quiet. Oh, he still made his inquiries, officially. He still had his troops notified to bring the peasant in if they were to find him. On that level, he did what was to be expected. 

However, secretly, later that very week, he suddenly had the urge to have a new apartment, moving away from the barracks for the first time. A new apartment with a staff that were paid very generously to keep their new master’s secrets, but, with a certain amount of gold and a certain amount of arm twisting from the Secret Police, would say that their master didn’t live alone, but kept a companion. Someone not entirely what they were used to, someone scrawny and unmannered and who spoke with an accent coated in the countryside.

Lazare de Peyrol thought he could go against him. Thought that he could keep something for himself, his rabid dog growling around a measly scrap of a bone. He had grown compliant, used to the advantages of being in his favor. He’d forgotten that those privileges didn’t apply when it came to _him_. Artois was not his idiot brother, his simpering sister, or his brainless sister in law. He could not be brushed aside. 

Were the entire thing not so utterly laughable, Artois would have been utterly furious, exposed Peyrol for what he was, and had him stripped of his rank and sent to the Bastille himself. 

But it was so _amusing_ , hearing the reports. What they ate, how much Peyrol spent on its clothes and its furniture and its food, how he would sometimes wipe a bit of food away from the corner of its lip. 

Stuffy, monkish Peyrol had finally taken a lover. The quiet, reserved thing, whose most passionate emotion seemed to be roused when debating the possibility of military reform, was besotted. 

He had imagined it, in the past. Who Peyrol would take, if he weren’t so utterly devoted to him. He had settled on one of his men, or a valet. Someone who he could be in control of, instead of the other way around. Someone he could be harsh with, when he could not be harsh towards Artois. Someone disposable. Someone who would be a contrast to Artois in every way, and in so doing remind Peyrol of what he would never have. 

Not a long term lover. Not someone he would be attached to. Because that was for Artois, and Artois alone. 

And instead, he got a stupid, boorish, hotheaded peasant, who Peyrol nonetheless treated like a kept woman, the domestic scene between them not that much different than if he had dressed up a pig in a silken gown and pearls and called it the Comtesse de Peyrol. (Though the pig might be better suited to the role.) 

The Secret Police sent in the reports every day, Artois enjoying them in the comfort of his own bed at his mid-day breakfast over some brandy, pastries, oysters, lobster, scallops, and duck, the food sometimes growing cold enough to be sent away and replaced as he read over it. 

It was utterly perverse, and he couldn’t get enough of it. That the stiffest man in court was leading such a parody of a normal life, every kiss, every time their hands so much as brushed across the table being one new thing to laugh at. He could only imagine at how it had seduced Peyrol, what skills it must have possessed, though, then again, perhaps it had none at all, given what he knew of Peyrol’s experience. Sadly, the bedroom was the one area where the staff could not speak of, Peyrol keeping the doors firmly locked. All that he knew of _that_ was that they shared a bed, like a perfectly acceptable bourgeoise couple whose matches would not move the world, would not decide the fate of generations. He could imagine a hundred scenarios, each one more a parody of itself, how ridiculous they would seem together, an awkward contortion of limbs. 

He would laugh and he would laugh, until tears pricked at his eyes. 

Never did he doubt, of course, that Peyrol would come back. The novelty of playing house would wear off, and he would return to Artois’ side, all the more grateful now that he had known the touch of a mortal man and found it wanting. 

He would come back.

  
  


* * *

And, of course, the amusement hardly ended there. Just because he didn’t confront Peyrol with it outright, it hardly meant that he couldn’t enjoy watching him squirm. A part of Artois wanted him to come out and say it, to fall to his feet and beg him for clemency, humbled and chastened. 

A part of him dreaded it, because then it would be over. 

As it was, Peyrol was magnificently on edge in a way that he hadn’t been in years, and it was _delightful_ . Seeing him falling over himself, deluding himself into thinking that he could keep that wretched _thing_ , trying to shove it under the bed like a bit of spare dust. It made Peyrol so very uncomfortable, whenever the peasant decided to raise its hackles, impudently barking over some trifle or another, his back stiffening even as he hoped, desperately, that Charles wouldn’t see his apostasy. 

“How goes the hunt, Monsieur de Peyrol?” He asked, stretched out in a mahogany chaise, eyes halfway closed to hide how alert he really was, his favorite for the night stroking his arm languidly, white hands caressing black silk and silver thread. He hadn’t enough time to get rid of the mourning outfit he’d been forced to wear at Antoinette’s brat’s funeral. At least it had been slow enough in doing it, though the wait had been an agony, that he had time to get an outfit tailored to his tastes for the occasion. 

In his uniform, reeking of gunsmoke and covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the ride from Paris to Versailles, Peyrol could not have looked more out of place. 

Peyrol tensed immediately, and there was that brief moment of panic that betrayed him, but only to someone who was aware of what he should look like. (He had betrayed himself a long time ago, when he let Artois learn those little movements.) 

“It is believed that Mazurier has cut contact from his revolutionary associates.”  
  
“Really?” Artois tilted his head. 

Peyrol didn’t shuffle, nothing so obvious, as he adjusted to the excuse, but there was a shift in his weight nonetheless. “Yes, having read through the reports of your own Secret Police, I found that witnesses in the area reported hearing a fight inside the premises.” 

Or, more likely, he had heard the details of the fight firsthand, while one of the principle instigators lounged in bed with him, licking his wounds. 

“That’s right!” Ramard piped up, pumping his chest. “Apparently, you could hear it for a block at least!”  
  
“A mile!” Loisel added. 

“Throughout the entire city!” Tournemain made it a trio. 

Artois rolled his eyes. If it were only much less work to get better help…

“Anyway,” Ramard said, “Before they ran off, everyone agreed: He’s totally split from them.” 

“As such, he is significantly harder to find and, as of late, my men have been more focused on other areas, namely in keeping order in the city. Furthermore, in my professional opinion, it is hardly worth it to continue.”  
  
“You will stop when I tell you to stop.” Artois hissed, almost bolting off the chair, and the change is enough that Peyrol takes a solid step back before bowing. 

“Of course, Your Grace.” 

It was a fun little game, and it was one decided from the beginning. Peyrol would get over his little infatuation with time and come back, tail tucked between his legs, and Charles would decide whether he would grant his mercy or not, and all would be as it was. As it should be. 

He wouldn’t throw him a bone, he would never be so desperate as _that_ , but Peyrol would stay with him, and he would be content to share some of the warmth of being in the presence of the divine. 

It was his place, after all. By his side. Forever.

**Author's Note:**

> -Mademoiselle Dúthe: She really was the mistress of both Artois and his cousin, the Duc d'Orléans, with the latter losing his virginity to her when they were both young and her later taking up with Artois. She was, allegedly, the origin for the stereotype of the Dumb Blonde, though, on a personal level, I'm curious about how much of that was pure exaggeration mixed with sexism. 
> 
> -The Artois buckle - A real thing! Generally speaking, fashionable young men attached paste shinies to them, as opposed to Artois' diamonds here.


End file.
